<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>ain’t gonna need any more advice by APgeeksout</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25100608">ain’t gonna need any more advice</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/APgeeksout/pseuds/APgeeksout'>APgeeksout</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>All Elite Wrestling</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Background Relationships, M/M, PWP</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 03:26:57</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>985</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25100608</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/APgeeksout/pseuds/APgeeksout</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“Is it weird that I’m here?” Kenny stopped to park his bags in the corner that Mox had jerked his chin toward as they passed through the front door and out of the baking desert heat. “‘Cause it feels like it could be a little weird.”</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Jon Moxley/Kenny Omega</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>48</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Little Black Dress Exchange 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>ain’t gonna need any more advice</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/beedekka/gifts">beedekka</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Set at some nebulous point in time after Full Gear + while Mox is still holding an NJPW championship.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Is it weird that I’m here?” Kenny stopped to park his bags in the corner that Mox had jerked his chin toward as they passed through the front door and out of the baking desert heat. “‘Cause it feels like it could be a little weird.”  He looked around expectantly, though he wasn’t sure what for: a sofa upholstered in razor wire? Colt Cabana lying in wait?</p><p>Mox laughed a little - the quiet scoffing one that had gotten under his skin so easily in the beginning. “I dunno, man. Are you going to make it weird?”</p><p>He gave a broad shrug, and tried to pass off his wince at the twinge it set off in his left shoulder as part of the joke; he didn’t expect to be in the ring opposite the guy again for a while now, but he’d just as soon not give Mox a roadmap to all his sore spots. “I mean, probably?”</p><p>“Well, at least you’re honest about it.” The laugh this time was louder and warmer and Kenny wanted to join in. “It’s fine, dude. Not like I had some hot plans you’re crashing.” Mox gave his own feeble shrug, then rolled his shoulders out in a squirmy little dance. “You’ll just bail me out some day down the road when my travel gets fucked up in your neck of the woods, and we’ll call it even. Besides, I live here: you really think “weird” is the worst these walls have seen? Lemme give you the nickel tour.”</p>
<hr/><p>“I’d offer you a beer,” Mox said from the doorway of his den, startling Kenny’s attention away from the red and gold face of the IWGP U.S. Championship, snug in its velvet and plexiglass case, “but I’ve seen how that goes.”  </p><p>He hadn’t meant to snoop - he wasn’t going to learn anything from Moxley’s stuff that he didn’t already understand from being between the ropes with him - but, after Mox had given him the walkthrough, he’d left him to his own devices to shake off the fug and frustration of the airport, and his feet had carried him back here.</p><p>“Got some cold Coke, though, or, like, tonic water,” Mox continued. “Not much in the way of real food in the fridge just now, but I have a fine assortment of takeout menus.”</p><p>“Hey, yeah, thanks,” he said, and saw Mox follow his gaze to where the title rested on the polished surface of the bartop. Saw his smile sharpen up into something knowing and dangerous and exciting.</p><p>“See something you like? Something you want back?”</p><p>He tried to laugh it off, but the truth was a <em>yes</em> and a <em>please</em> and a <em>fuck you</em>, and he had the feeling Mox could smell it all on him: how proud he’d been to carry that Championship; how much he’d won back even as he lost the belt; how many closed doors and smoldering bridges stood between him and the possibility of regaining any of it.</p><p>Mox closed the distance between them and leaned past him to unfasten the catch on the case and open the hinged lid and press his fingers to its engraved edges with something that looked almost like reverence. “I can’t book you a match for it or anything - I’m no E.V.P. - but we’re creative guys, you and me. I’m sure we can cook up a way for you to earn some quality time with it.”</p><p>“Earn, huh?” It didn’t sound quite as defiant as he’d meant it to, with Mox standing so close, warm and smelling like wintergreen gum, with his own throat gone dry and something at the core of him aching to sink to his knees.</p>
<hr/><p>“Just like that, god, that’s right.” Mox’s hand rested at the back of his head, fingers working into his hair with every breathless word. Kenny smirked around his cock, heavy and velvet against his tongue, and wondered, with the fraction of his mind that wasn’t otherwise occupied, when he had learned Mox’s tells well enough to put together that that particular kind of babble - out of all the other ways Mox might run his mouth - meant that he was close.</p><p>He tilted forward, taking Moxley deeper into his throat and nuzzling that much closer to the warm gold of the faceplate, and at the same time stroking himself fast and rough, almost managing to forget his own frustration in the rush. It was all a few degrees off what he’d been itching for: breathing in the rich leather of the strap around someone else’s waist instead of feeling it dig into his own hips; the thigh quivering under his palm thicker and not so smooth as the body he usually imagined when he was jerking off; too many words washing over him in too plainly unaccented English. Still, “not perfect” was a long way from “not good”, and he felt his fingers slick with precome, tension coiling tight in his gut.</p><p>“Aw, fuck, so good at this, oh, babe.” Moxley’s eyes were closed when Kenny glanced up at him, and he wondered briefly who Mox was missing, whose mouth he was remembering as he dropped his hand to curve against Kenny’s neck with a startlingly tender squeeze and lost the steady rhythm of his hips and spilled sudden and bitter over Kenny’s tongue.</p><p>He finished himself off with just a few more harsh strokes and tipped his head forward to lean against the face of the title, not minding if it marked him up.</p><p>“A fucking champ,” Mox panted, and took some of his dead weight without pushing him away.</p><p>It wasn’t quite the truth, or even if it was, Mox wasn’t quite the one he needed to hear it from.  Still, he’d had years’ worth of practice at taking what he could get, of getting by without every golden thing he’d let slip through his hands. </p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>